When I was showing at the gym and trying to wash all the grease off my hands, I noticed my hands reminded me of my grandfather's (rest in peace). That dude was a man's man who could build or fix anything. He grew up hard, never got past the third grade. My Grandad grew up in the midwest and moved around a lot and said when you moved to a new town, you inevitably had to fight the toughest kid in town. There was no 'ass kicking' or 'homies getting your back', you either 'licked the guy' or 'got licked'. Long story longer...my grandfather told me about a time at the beginning of the depression where he had just moved to California on his own and was out of work. He heard there was farm work in Fresno so some of his buddies and he fixed an old car and took off from L.A. to Fresno to work. Somewhere on the Gorman pass, the car broke down. The guys had nothing back in L.A. so they WALKED to Fresno. The walk took them a few days and they slept outside and ate raw cabbages and stuff they pinched from farmers fields along the way. Once they got to Fresno they had to stay there long enough until they could buy car parts, hire a ride to take them back to their car (which was still there), and come back to L.A. with some cash. So...while I sat there cleaning the grease off my hands, I realized walking three miles on a perfect morning isn't all that bad.
No comments:
Post a Comment